


10:32

by wordonawing



Series: the bookshop boys [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Combeferre is my favourite, Enjolras works too hard, Fluff, Grantaire is a classics nerd, Grantaire/Jehan brotp, M/M, because who doesn't love those, bookshop au, bookshop terminology, gratuitious homer references, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordonawing/pseuds/wordonawing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens, Grantaire isn't really paying attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	10:32

**Author's Note:**

> there used to be a lovely boy at my bookshop whose shift started as mine ended.  
> (turned out he had an equally lovely girlfriend, but oh well.)

**Week 1**

The first time it happens, Grantaire isn't really paying attention.

He's been left to his own devices in his little corner, sorting out the dusty old Homers and Virgils from the coffee-table tomes of Ancient Rome. He's doing okay - like Valjean said, he knows his classics, and he's even managed to successfully locate a copy of _The Iliad_ for an elderly customer, much to Courfeyrac's surprise ("I couldn't find the front door til I'd been here, like, a year! Do you _smell_ your way around?!"). He's just contemplating drawing a map of the shop for future reference, complete with sketches of who's on what at what times, when a breathtakingly beautiful boy about his own age comes skidding down the winding staircase, neatly dances out of the way of the towering piles of books teetering on each step, and promptly disappears from view.

Grantaire blinks.

Alright then.

He must admit he's a little surprised; from what he's seen of the other employees so far, they seem a pretty friendly bunch. Courfeyrac practically exploded with happiness when Marius brought Grantaire over to the kids' section, his grin brighter than the covers of the books behind him. "Newbie!" he shouted joyfully, seizing Grantaire's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "Welcome aboard!" Marius had rolled his eyes at Grantaire, but he wasn't fooling anyone - from what Grantaire's seen, all of the ABC employees are unerringly fond of their gregarious friend, even if he can be a little wearying at times.

Thankfully, he left Grantaire to his own devices, perhaps sensing that he preferred to work alone. It's not that he isn't sociable - on the contrary, he's already looking forward to his next tea break, so he can head up to the tiny back room and talk to his new colleagues - but when it comes to books, he prefers solitude. ("Just like our fearless leader," Courfeyrac said, and Jehan nudged him and shook his head.) The ticking of the grandfather clock is soothing, and he finds himself lulled into an almost trancelike state of tranquility.

That is, until the strange angel-faced boy whirls down the stairs.

Grantaire tries to continue sorting through the shelves, but he's not ashamed to say he's relieved when Courfeyrac and Jehan pop up to see how he's getting on.

Jehan smiles at him and delicately places a flower on his desk. "For luck," he explains, blushing slightly under his head of curly hair. Grantaire grins at him and tucks the flower into his top button-hole, which he's undone in an effort to cool himself down. There's a fan near the stairs, but the shop is still sweltering in the June sunshine.

He rests his chin on his hand and decides to ask them about the beautiful boy, though he doesn't use quite that phrase, of course.

"Hey, who's the guy who just came down the stairs like the entire police force was after him?"

"It sometimes is," Courfeyrac mutters under his breath, before raising his voice to say, "Ah, I see you've met our fearless leader. Pretty, isn't he?" He winks at Grantaire and Jehan punches him in the arm. "Hey, that hurt! I'm only teasing, darling." He presses a kiss to Jehan's cheek and bats his eyelashes alluringly. "Besides, he's, like, the world's biggest prude. I'm ninety-five percent sure he's not actually human."

"Sorry, what?" Grantaire is lost. Jehan rolls his eyes and takes over.

"That's our manager, Enjolras. He's a bit..."

"Cold. Like, super-duper-would-freeze-fire cold. He's lovely, but he never really learnt how to be a normal person, bless his heart."

"...Right."

"Don't worry, he'll introduce himself eventually. Wait, actually -" Courfeyrac picks up the timetable from Grantaire's desk "- he might not get a chance to."

"What d'you mean?" Grantaire tries to keep his tone casual, but his heart is doing odd things at the prospect of never catching more than a fleeting glance of the mysterious 'Enjolras'.

"He works the graveyard shift." Courfeyrac shudders, as if the mere words bring him immense pain. "For some reason known only to Valjean and Enjolras himself we're open 24 hours on Fridays and Saturdays, so at around eight or so everyone with a certain degree of sanity goes home and he holes himself away in his little anarchist nest and plots to overthrow the government or whatever. He comes down again in the morning to stock up on coffee and then he goes home and presumably sleeps for the rest of the day. God knows how he does it. Oh no!" Courfeyrac pretends to wipe away a tear and shows the timetable to Grantaire. "You just miss each other! That's so tragic, I think someone's going to have to write a poem about that." He raises an eyebrow at Jehan, who shoves him playfully.

"I'm the other half of the top floor, I do poetry and literature," he tells Grantaire when he spots his quizzical look.

"And a damn good poet to boot." Courfeyrac ruffles Jehan's hair and grins proudly. Jehan goes bright red and hides his face in his hands.

Grantaire takes the timetable from Courfeyrac and scans the colour-coded boxes (he doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s apparently been allocated a bright pink colour). He’s right: Enjolras works basically 24/7 minus Grantaire’s Saturday ten-to-five and Monday and Thursday evenings (these last two are both pencilled in as ‘Vive La Revolution!!!’, whatever that means).

He looks up to see Courfeyrac making a puppy face at him and scowls. “What’re you looking like that for? It’s not like we’re star-crossed lovers or whatever.”

There’s a cry of “Oh, fuck!” from Jehan and before Grantaire can even breathe the little poet is gone, nearly tripping up the stairs in his haste. Marius, who is on his way down laden with armfuls of paperbacks, steps out of his way with barely a second glance (which Grantaire is vaguely impressed by; he’d had Marius pegged as the tripping-over-his-own-shoelaces type).

Grantaire quirks an eyebrow at Courfeyrac, who shrugs. “He does that sometimes. ‘Inspiration’ or whatever.”

“I see,” says Grantaire, although he doesn’t really.

Courfeyrac perches on the edge of the desk and chats to him for a bit before he heads back downstairs, winking at Grantaire and warning him to “Be good!”, which Grantaire thinks is a bit rich coming from him, because he’s seen the chores list and Courfeyrac is currently on five months’ cleaning duty for ‘countless infractions’, whatever that means. Grantaire gets back to his books, keeping an eye on the handful of browsers in the stacks and trying to ignore the way his chest is aching slightly.

**Week 2**

“Grantaire!”

Grantaire starts awake and jolts upright, several sheets of his sketchbook coming with him. He hurriedly pulls the paper off his face and pretends to look like someone who hasn’t just fallen asleep on the job after half an hour of doodling instead of keeping tabs on his section. Judging by the expression on Combeferre’s face, it doesn’t work.

“Yessir?”

Combeferre rolls his eyes at the moniker and says, “Have you seen Enjolras anywhere?”

Grantaire blinks the sleep out of his eyes and runs his hands through his obscenely messy hair. “Um?”

“Tall, blond, looks like he’s either about to kill someone or raise them from perdition?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know who he is. I haven’t seen him.” Sadly. Grantaire had been rather looking forward to seeing the mysterious manager again.

Combeferre sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I swear, that boy -”

His exclamation is interrupted, however, by a cough from the stairs.

“Sorry,” says Enjolras, running a hand through his impossibly long hair (and, really, Grantaire should be kind of put off by that, because who even has hair that long these days, like surely that’s a health hazard, it’s practically brushing his shoulder blades, or probably would be if it wasn’t caught up at the base of his head in a strip of leather, and Grantaire wants to kiss the tiny golden hairs at the nape of his neck that look like they’re on fire in the morning sun and -)

Oh.

Both Combeferre and Enjolras are staring at him.

Apparently a question was addressed to him in the indeterminate amount of time he spent staring at Enjolras’s neck.

That’s awkward.

Grantaire wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans and says, “Sorry, what?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes (his beautiful eyes, blue like the summer sky, like - _focus, Grantaire_ ). “I said have you seen Marius anywhere?”

“There’s been a bit of a hiccup in the fiction accounts,” Combeferre supplies helpfully when Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Nothing to worry about. Probably. Come on, Enjolras.” He taps Enjolras on the shoulder and gestures to the stairs, but Enjolras is looking somewhat quizzically at Grantaire, as if he's only just properly noticed him. Grantaire thinks that if he were a dog, his head would be cocked to one side in puzzlement.

"Er, can I help you?" Grantaire says, because he doesn't know what else to do.

The marble brow furrows. "Who are you?"

Grantaire thinks Combeferre might pull a muscle, he exhales so deeply. "That's Grantaire, Enjolras. You know, the new guy? Surely you remember Valjean saying he's been wanting to broaden the classics department?"

Enjolras clicks his fingers and nods. "Right, yes, got it. Sorry, long shift."

Combeferre just shakes his head exasperatedly and points down the stairs. "Go. Now." Enjolras does as he says, with one last glance at Grantaire. Grantaire tries to pretend like he’s not melting on the inside.

Combeferre sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I worry about him. He can recite  _The Social Contract_ from memory, but after his all-nighters his brain turns to scrambled egg."

Grantaire just sort of nods in what he hopes is a sympathetic way. Combeferre gives one last sigh and, with an absentminded “Don’t fall asleep again,” retreats to the first floor.

Grantaire thinks for a moment, puts his head down on his desk, and promptly falls asleep.

**Week 5**

Grantaire doesn’t see Enjolras for a while after that.

Which he is completely fine with, thank you for asking.

“Are you alright?” Jehan asks him one day, folding his long legs beneath him and propping his book on his knee. He’s taken to slipping down from the top floor and curling himself into a corner of the classics section, taking a slim volume of poetry out of his pocket and settling down to read. Grantaire doesn’t mind; on the contrary, he finds the gentle sound of turning pages and quiet breathing rather soothing, like a child’s lullaby. Sometimes he has to fight to blink himself awake, because he’s been put on dish duty three times already this month, and he really doesn’t want to clean out Courfeyrac’s brownie-in-a-mug again.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?” Grantaire looks up briefly from  _The Song of Achilles_ , but doesn't dog-ear it quite yet - he has an idea of what Jehan's getting at, and is hoping he'll drop it if he's antisocial enough.

Jehan shrugs, dislodging his braid from his shoulder so it swings like a pendulum. “I don’t know, you just seem a little melancholy.”

 _Greek,_ supplies Grantaire’s mind helpfully, partly to distract himself and partly because once you start tracing words back to their ancestors it’s quite hard to stop. He doesn’t tell Jehan that, though, because people don’t tend to like people who tell you where your words come from. He just shrugs back at him and says, “Maybe it’s the weather.”

Jehan nods understandingly; it’s the height of summer, and London is (uncharacteristically) pounded by relentless, oppressive heat. Apart from the ground floor, the bookshop has no air-conditioning, which means that going up the staircase is akin to walking from the Arctic to the Sahara in a matter of seconds. The number of electric fans has been upped to around a dozen, placed at strategic intervals throughout the shop, along with ice boxes full of bottles of water, and everyone is required to take at least four extra breaks during their six-hour shifts, a rule that Grantaire is immensely grateful for. Nevertheless, his paint-splattered (Combeferre raised an eyebrow, but said nothing) t shirt is still sticking to his skin, and the small of his back is uncomfortably damp. Courfeyrac had attempted to shed himself of his own shirt earlier in the day, but (according to Jehan; Grantaire’s shift hadn’t started when the incident occurred) Cosette quickly shot down that idea with a swift dictionary to the back of the head. Luckily, it wasn’t the Oxford, but Courfeyrac still sulked on a chair at least four sizes too small for him until a customer came in with a puppy.

“Some of us are going to the park later, d’you want to come along?”

Grantaire reluctantly stops reading, marks his place and puts the book down on his desk. Jehan is looking at him expectantly. “Um, well...”

“Enjolras will be there,” Jehan says, a slight teasing spark in his green eyes. Grantaire most definitely does not blush.

“Nah, sorry, man,” he says instead, fiddling with the pencil behind his ear. “Got. Stuff. To do. Um.”

Jehan nods before Grantaire can embarrass himself further. “Okay,” he says simply, winding a lock of hair between his fingers and going back to his poetry. This is what Grantaire loves about Jehan: he doesn’t feel the need to explain himself to the little poet.

He pushes the nagging feeling that he’s made the wrong decision out of his mind and goes back to his book.

**Week 8**

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Hmm?” Grantaire looks up from his book and nearly gets the fright of his life. Seriously, when is Enjolras going to _stop doing that_?

The Greek god in question raises a disdainful eyebrow and flicks his hair out of his eyes. It’s even longer than usual, Grantaire notes; he should probably get a haircut.

“You should probably get a haircut,” he says, because his brain-to-mouth filter is faulty at the best of times, and, well, _Enjolras_.

Enjolras looks a bit confused, understandably. “Thanks?”

“Any time.” Grantaire tries to be casual, but fails miserably (as usual). Enjolras shakes his head exasperatedly.

“So, back to the point?” His tone is slightly patronising now, reminiscent of a parent not-so-patiently reiterating a rule to a forgetful child. “I need you to do something for me.”

(Grantaire wonders if Enjolras phrases all his requests as commands. Probably.)

“And what would this ‘thing’ entail?” Grantaire flips his book shut and interlinks his fingers, resting his chin on the bridge of his knuckles. Yes, okay, he’s interested. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do, is it? And besides, Enjolras is still in his post-all-nighter glow, his shoulders slumped and his eyes tired and his expression just a little softer than normal.

(Not that Grantaire often sees him in his normal state, of course. And no, it doesn’t bother him, fuck off.)

Enjolras digs a hand into the pocket of his obscenely tight jeans (seriously, how is there even space in there?) and pulls out a neatly folded sheet of paper, dropping it onto Grantaire’s desk. Grantaire picks it up and smooths it out flat.

“Valjean’s been wanting to start a postcard range for a while now, but we’ve never really got round to it,” Enjolras explains. “And you’re good at art, so I was thinking you could maybe - what the fuck are you laughing at?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath, looks up at Enjolras, looks back at the drawing in his hands, and nearly falls off his chair laughing.

“It’s just a draft!” Enjolras is scowling fiercely at him now, which only serves to make Grantaire laugh harder, because he looks like an adorably cross puppy. “I’m not good at art!”

“That,” says Grantaire, between wheezing laugh-coughs, “is not art. I know a five-year-old who can draw better than that.”

Enjolras crosses his arms and makes a huffing noise and is he actually pouting? “Which five-year-old?” he asks, all defensive, like he’s genuinely thinking of competing with a _child_.

Grantaire manages to get his laughing under control. “Like, all of the kids in my art class. Seriously, didn’t you learn anything in nursery? Like, what people actually look like?”

“You take an art class with five-year-olds?” Enjolras doesn’t sneer, exactly, but it’s as good as. Grantaire resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yes, in art everyone is truly equal. No, idiot, I teach at the school down the road.”

“Oh. Right.” Enjolras has the decency to look embarrassed. “So, can you do it?”

“Make this into something that actually resembles a design? Yes, Enjolras, I can.”

Enjolras frowns, but nods his head. “Good. There’s no rush, take your time.”

It’s on the tip of Grantaire’s tongue to ask him for something in return, namely his number (and perhaps his soul), but by the time he’s got the words straight in his head Enjolras is halfway down the stairs, calling, “Thanks, …!”

“Grantaire,” Grantaire says, but not loud enough for him to hear, because he’ll probably forget it again anyway and besides he has better things to do. Like cry over the ending of _The Song of Achilles_.

**Week 13**

“It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ you,” Combeferre says placatingly, taking off his glasses and rubbing the marks they leave on the bridge of his nose. “He’s just...”

“A dickhead?”

Combeferre frowns at Grantaire and Grantaire looks sheepish, because Combeferre is the kind of person you never ever want to disappoint or anger or irritate in any way in case he gives you the look that says _you are so much better than this and also I’m going to murder you slowly with a pricing gun_.

Grantaire likes Combeferre, and not just because their names rhyme (a quirk of fate which endlessly amuses Courfeyrac). He’s calm and sensible and always knows exactly what to do and once he got really sad when Grantaire nearly killed a moth so Grantaire stopped brandishing a rolled-up newspaper and instead watched Combeferre very very carefully catch the moth in a jar and release it out of the window and stand there looking out of the window with such tenderness shining in his eyes that Grantaire had to pretend he had hay fever and _no, Bahorel, those are not tears, it’s the fucking pollen, okay?_

Plus, he’s known Enjolras since they were four.

“He just takes time to get to know people, that’s all. He’s bad at showing emotion. Always has been. You should’ve seen him in school...”

Grantaire gets a mental picture of a sixteen-year-old Enjolras holding heated debates with his teachers over why the education system was structurally unsound and did nothing to help young minds grow or whatever, and laughs. A small smile curls the corner of Combeferre’s mouth up.

“He’s very... straight-talking, I suppose.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t fuck around, does he?”

“No,” says Combeferre, nodding sagely. “He doesn’t. He’s not really into things that aren’t the shop or the revolution.”

“Yeah, what is this revolution thing that you all disappear to on Mondays and Thursdays?”

“Oh, has no one told you?” Combeferre looks genuinely concerned, bless him. “We’re a sort of political group. We do rallies and protests and things. Enjolras is the leader, he’s the one who started it all. He dragged me and Courf into it when we were younger, and then after we started working here we recruited more people until it just sort of escalated.” He shrugs modestly. “We’re trying to change the world, I guess, but we probably won’t.”

“‘Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world,’” says Grantaire, because it’s on one of the postcards that he drew for Enjolras. They’re selling pretty well, so much so that Valjean has extended the range to include badges. Grantaire’s jaw dropped the other day when he caught sight of a girl on the tube with a ‘Keep Calm I’m An Anarchist’ one adorning her messenger bag because _that one was meant to be a joke is it really selling holy shit._

Combeferre smiles in a vaguely proud way. “Nice quote, but there’s been a lot of small groups of thoughtful, committed citizens throughout history and not many of them had any impact on history whatsoever.”

“Well, maybe you’ll be the first, hey?”

“Perhaps.” Combeferre glances at his watch and stands up abruptly. “Oh, dear God. I’m very sorry, Grantaire, but I’m late for a meeting with Valjean. Seems I have to stick up for Courfeyrac again regarding the Cookie Situation.” He rolls his eyes, and Grantaire nods understandingly. The Cookie Situation has achieved legendary status among the employees of the bookshop. “Do you mind - ?”

“No, not at all, go for it. Thanks, for, um. Chatting with me.”

“It’s no problem at all. You can always talk to me if you need anything, you know that.” Combeferre smiles warmly and claps Grantaire on the shoulder. “And don’t worry about Enjolras. He may be stand-offish at times, but he genuinely likes you.”

“Even though he can’t remember my name?”

“That’s just his way of showing affection. Believe it or not, he can remember the names of people he _doesn’t_ like perfectly. He got me and Courfeyrac mixed up for so long he just took to calling us ‘Courf’ and ‘Ferre’. See you later, my friend.”

Combeferre heads off down the stairs, but stops before his head has disappeared beneath the level of the floor. “Oh, and Grantaire?”

“Hmm?”

“You should come to our next meeting. I’m sure Enjolras would like to see you there.”

Grantaire snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“I mean it. And even if you don’t believe me, well, come anyway. We’d love to have you.” And, with a quick smile and a reassuring nod, Combeferre is gone.

**Week 16**

“She’s just...” Marius gestures vaguely with his hands, as if what he’s describing is too huge to be expressed in mere words. “Perfect, you know?”

Grantaire plays with his bottle of water and most definitely does not sneak a glance at the ceiling. “Nobody’s perfect, Marius. She’s just the first girl to talk to you, that’s all. You’ve got a crush on her. A big one, sure, but it’ll pass.”

Marius sighs mournfully and rests his chin on his hand. “She’s so lovely. She does this thing where she sticks her tongue out of the side of her mouth when she’s reading, it’s so cute. And her hair is so shiny and it looks super soft, and her _eyes_ , Grantaire, her eyes...”

Grantaire tries to nod understandingly as Marius goes on and on about his lady love, who just happens to be the boss’s daughter. He feels for the kid, he really does; Valjean is, like, seven feet tall, and built like a brick shithouse, and he dotes upon his only child. And Marius... well, Marius is Marius. He’s sweet and kind and possibly the most quietly intelligent person Grantaire has ever met. Courfeyrac told Grantaire last week that Marius did both French and German A level in a year, having never studied either language before, and even ran a tutoring business for a while.

He’s also a complete idiot, but most people are, really.

“ _Wunderschön_ ,” breathes Marius, staring out of the window soulfully.

“Marius, mate, English?”

“Oh. Right. Sorry. She’s just... Have you ever been in love, Grantaire?”

“Only with a bottle,” says Grantaire, maybe a little too quickly.

“It’s the _best thing_ ,” Marius says intensely, with a sort of fierce passion burning in his eyes.

 _No_ , thinks Grantaire. _It really isn’t_. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he pats Marius comfortingly on the shoulder and sends him back down to fiction, still grinning like an idiot.

**Week 19**

Then there’s the day Enjolras comes downstairs with shadows on his knuckles to match the ones under his eyes.

Grantaire looks very studiously at the new stock he’s slotting into the shelves (after quite a lot of scrabbling to recall books he’s forgotten to week-number - it’s lucky he’s got a good memory), but he must allow his gaze to wander at some point because Enjolras pauses on his way to the ground floor and hovers there, like a wisp of sunlight, with burnt gold in his hair and bruises on his fingers and a jagged cut slicing across one perfectly arched eyebrow.

Grantaire thinks about asking what happened. The syllables are all ready on his tongue when Enjolras abruptly jerks into motion, slipping down the stairs and out of sight before Grantaire can so much as blink. The bell on the shop door jangles once, and he’s gone.

It’s the first time Grantaire ever sees Enjolras imperfect.

 **Week 20**  

_operation: get enjolras to love me_

_1) write poem_

(“Jehan, how do you write poetry?”

“Well,” says Jehan, chewing on the end of his braid thoughtfully, “I normally just sort of cry and write down the words that come out.”

“...Thanks, Jehan.”)

_2) make speech_

("Combeferre, how do you make a speech?"

"Ask Enjolras.")

_3) make art_

("Grantaire, why is there paint in your hair?"

"Don't ask.")

_4) ask out for coffee_

("Enjolras? Hey, I was wondering if - right. Okay. Never mind.")

_5) "accidentally" drop book on head. kiss better._

("Combeferre! I think I killed Enjolras!")

_6) order flowers. ring doorbell. run away._

("Grantaire, why are you leaving flowers outside my neighbour's house?"

"Oh, fuck.")

_7) make coffee._

("I only drink organic.")

_8) try pick-up line._

("Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?"

"...What?")

_9) wink seductively._

("Is there something in your eye?")

_10) dress nicely._

("Grantaire, why are you wearing a bow tie?")

_11) give compliments._

("You look nice today."

"It's my grandfather's funeral."

"...Oh.")

_12) leave origami in locker._

("Who put a paper Balrog in my locker?")

_13) stalk._

("Grantaire, isn't your bus stop that way?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah. Sorry.")

_14) give up._

_15) ask courfeyrac._

("Serenade him.

"What the fuck.")

**Week 21**

_note to self: never follow courfeyrac's advice again._

**Week 23**

“And that’ll be six ninety-nine, please. Thanks.” Grantaire presses the corresponding buttons on the till for the customer’s purchase (God knows it took long enough for him to memorise that) and slides the tenner into the right compartment. He collects the change, double-checks it, and hands both the coins and the receipt to the customer, making sure to put the former in the palm of their outstretched hand and slot the latter between their thumb and index finger. (Combeferre is very particular about this last instruction; a peeve Grantaire never understood until he went into a Tesco’s and nearly lost his hard-earned wages because the girl behind the till dumped both the notes and the coins in a big pile in his hand.)

(Bookshop employees lead extremely thrilling lives.)

Grantaire bumps the change drawer shut with his stomach - a habit he’s picked up from Courfeyrac - and gingerly climbs back onto the rickety foldaway stool kindly provided for employees’ use behind the desk. He likes being on the till, partly because he doesn’t get to do it much; the second-floor one doesn’t get used unless the ground floor is broken, as it is today. And even if it is, usually Marius will just relocate up two floors, meaning that Grantaire is left in peace to stack books and get into a panic over what week it is. But Marius has the flu, so it’s Grantaire’s turn.

Grantaire swings his legs idly and picks up the new translation of _The_ _Iliad_ that came in last week, which he’s enjoying a lot more than he anticipated. He’s fighting his way through Book 2 (seriously, how many ships _were_ there?) when there’s a polite cough from the staircase.

“Having fun?” Enjolras asks, leaning a hip against the edge of the till desk. He’s dressed simply - a red t-shirt and dark jeans, his hair sticking up in several different directions - but Grantaire still has to catch his breath.

“It’s kind of like playing shops, you know, when you’re four. But it’s fun. I get to try out my legendary charm.” He wiggles his eyebrows playfully, and Enjolras rolls his eyes. “You off, then?”

Enjolras nods, but stays where he is. There’s an expression on his face that Grantaire can’t read when he sticks out a hand and says, “Care to join me?”

Grantaire smiles brighter than he ever has in his life.

* * *

The noise that Courfeyrac lets out when they come downstairs holding hands is almost worth keeping it secret.  

**Author's Note:**

> i just realised this only makes sense if you read (haha) the bookshop as a charity shop but w/e hope u enjoyed


End file.
